


Miles of Clouded Hell

by northernskies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attack, Pre-Slash, Sterek if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernskies/pseuds/northernskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Stiles that reaches out and put's a hand on Derek's shoulder. "You know, Sourwolf, we're a lot more alike than you think."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles of Clouded Hell

The night's events keep turning over and over in Stiles' mind. Lydia's party was supposed to be the highlight of his night – usually that sort of thing would be the highlight of the freaking year, but with the whole werewolf debacle over the past couple months, Stiles' life has come to be exceptionally eventful. He isn't sure if he's glad for that or not. Lydia has noticed him more, but she's gone a little crazy since Peter bit her. They're still trying to figure out what happened there, but with the full moon at its fullest that night, Stiles is sure it's safe to say Lydia is one hundred percent human.

Instead, the party turns into a nightmare. Someone manages to spike the punch bowl with wolfsbane petals – Scott and Stiles didn't know what it was that was making everyone freak out until after the party when the cops showed. It worries both of them and Scott says he's going to ask Derek.

The kanima's – Jackson's – master turns out to be Matt. Stiles is somewhat glad now that his father was fired, because at least now he won't be out chasing down the kanima – who the police think is human and not a monstrous, supposedly-mythical beast – and putting himself into even more danger. Stiles doesn't know why he still has a head of brown hair, what with the way he worries endlessly about his father. He thinks he should be sporting a head of gray hair, but so far he hasn't managed to find a single one.

What is gnawing on Stiles' sanity isn't any of this, even though he knows it should be, but the vision of his father shouting at him drunkenly, telling him everything, everything, is Stiles' fault: his mother's death, his father having to raise him, his father's lost job… and even though Stiles knows it wasn't real, he can't help but wonder if his father really thinks any of that. Stiles realized none of it was real when Scott admitted he was seeing things too, and when others start freaking out over things that aren't there, they realize something is wrong. It's only when Stiles glances over the rim of someone's glass that he sees the purple wolfsbane petal floating listlessly on the surface of the punch, and it dawns on him so hard that he sways under the realization.

Since Scott doesn't have his car anymore, Stiles has to drive him home afterwards. They sit in silence in Stiles' jeep, the only sounds between them their own breathing and Scott picking at the fraying seat. Stiles glances out of the corner of his eye at his best friend, trying to work up the nerve to tell him to stop, but he can't. So when Stiles brings the jeep to a halt at the end of Scott's driveway, Scott hops out without a word and walks to his front door. Stiles knows it is because Scott is worried – Allison disappeared at some point and isn't returning Scott's calls or texts – and Stiles worries as well.

Stiles doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he goes to put his jeep into reverse. He pulls them away from the steering wheel to gaze at the slight tremor in his fingers – the longer he stares at them, the more they seem to shake. Swallowing thickly, Stiles backs out of Scott's driveway. The sudden need to be home overwhelms Stiles. He wants to be in his own bed, curled up within the warm cocoon of his blankets, and the more he thinks about it the higher the speedometer climbs, until he is going eighty in a forty zone and is likely to get caught if he doesn't stop. So he slows down, and slows and slows until he pulls over to the curb and buries his head in his hands.

There is the sound of an approaching car, and Stiles quickly lifts his head and pretends to dig around on the floor for something. The car passes without pause, and when Stiles looks up again there is a flash of heat at the back of his neck at the same time the world around him begins to swim. He can't tell whether the clock on his dash says ten o'clock or eleven, and when the heat seeps away back into his skin there is the intense feeling of chills dancing up and down the back of his neck. Stiles rubs at it fiercely, trying to make the prickling sensation go away. He knows what is happening but he just wants the hot and the cold feelings to stop, so he rubs at the back of his neck harder until the skin is red and raw. He doesn't know if it's been seconds, minutes, or hours since he pulled over, but he does know there is a fierce pounding in his temple and all he wants to do is curl up and go to sleep. The back seat looks enticing, so enticing that Stiles has unbuckled his seat belt and is half in the back and half in the front of his jeep. He doesn't notice when a pair of headlights light the interior of his jeep, and is preparing to drag himself the rest of the way into the back seat when there is a soft tapping at the driver's side window.

Everything around Stiles is still spinning. When he turns around he turns so quickly that everything spins even faster. His stomach squeezes sickeningly, and then there is a stinging in the back of his throat before he vomits on the carpet in his back seat. Stiles doesn't turn back to see who was rapping on his window – it was most likely the person who had driven by earlier, doubling back to see if he was alright – and lay his cheek against the back seat. The material the seat is made out of is rough against his cheek, and Stiles knows it will leave an imprint. The rancid smell of his own vomit is disgusting, but Stiles didn't want to move. He began to breathe in and out of his mouth to avoid smelling the bile, but in doing so he all of a sudden feels as if he can't get enough air into his lungs. Stiles gasps again and again, trying to draw in air he knows he doesn't need but at the same time can't stop.

There is another knock on his window. It lasts for half a second before the door opens with a familiar click, whoever is outside deciding to open the door rather than watch as Stiles breaks down in front of them. The fresh air coming in through the open door is so refreshing that Stiles gasps for air all the more, like it is some sort of cure for his panic attack.

Hands grab at Stiles' waist and catch him by surprise. He yelps loudly in the middle of trying to draw air, and pain blooms in his chest like he had just swallowed air. The hands at his waist are hot, too hot, and Stiles bucks violently against them with all of his might even as they pull him from the jeep. Stiles doesn't stop to think that this might be Jackson or Matt or some crazy werewolf passing through – or even Scott or one of the new werewolves. The only thing he can think about is the heat from those hands on his sides, and how uncomfortable it is. His body flashes hot and cold at their touch.

Whoever it is, they are tall and dark-haired. Stiles can't get a good look at their face – everything around him continues to spiral out of focus. They try putting him on his feet, but Stiles' feet buckle under his own weight and he would have collapsed to the pavement had it not been for whoever was holding him up.

"Stiles!" The voice shouting into his ear is familiar, but he can't put a face or name to it. "Stiles snap out of it!" There is a touch of panic to the voice, like they aren't sure whether to keep holding on or just shove Stiles back into the jeep and leave him there. Stiles prefers the latter, if he even has a choice.

The hands don't tug him back up into a standing position, but continue holding onto him as he kneels on the pavement, held by whoever is beside him. Stiles knows he would collapse if it weren't for them, so he's sort of grateful they're not just letting him have a mouthful of pavement and rocks.

"Stiles, breathe." The voice speaks again, this time more soothingly. Stiles wants to say that he already tried that and it didn't work all that well, but he can't. His voice seems to have stopped working, and the only thing he can do is slump uselessly against whoever is holding him up.

At some point, the unbearable heat of their hands becomes familiar and comfortable, and Stiles presses up against whoever it is. He thinks they're probably wondering what the hell he is doing and contemplating dropping him.

There is a faint growl when he presses himself closer, and Stiles' eyes snap open at the sound of it. Things have started to slow down, and he can start to pick out single objects from one another. The trees in the distance no longer blur together, and the street lights are no longer blindingly bright. When he looks up at the person holding him, he can make out Derek's chiseled, stubble-covered jaw and the narrow of his eyes, which have a faint red hue to them that worries Stiles. Derek's mouth is set into an annoyed scowl, but the skin around his eyes is soft with concern. The narrowing of his eyes, Stiles realizes now, is out of worry rather than anger.

Stiles see's the blood next and immediately shoves himself out of Derek's grip. Derek is startled by this, otherwise Stiles would never have managed to get away, and he falls to the pavement. His head smacks against the paved road painfully and he groans, bringing a hand up to rub against his head. Stiles' fingers come away red with blood, but he doesn't know if that's from his head or from Derek's own wounds, which he can see now from the wide rips in his shirt. Everything begins to slip back into focus now as the attack recedes back within Stiles.

"What happened to you?" Stiles rasps, shakily propping himself up with both hands to gaze at Derek. Something unrecognizable flashes in the Alpha's eyes, but he remains silent. Stiles frowns. Derek isn't usually like this. He's brooding and loud and angry, and to be honest this quietness is starting to scare Stiles. "Derek?" He prompts.

"I should drive you home." Derek says instead. Before Stiles can protest – because that is exactly what he is going to do – Derek hauls him to his feet and drags him – literally drags him by the arm – to his Mercedes. Stiles tries to protest, but it's not much use against an unpredictable Alpha werewolf, and it isn't the best of ideas since it's the night of the full moon. Derek is unpredictable on any other day, but on the full moon he is even more so.

The lights are off in Stiles' house when Derek pulls into the driveway. They sit in silence for a few moments, but unlike earlier with Scott, the car is completely silent. Stiles holds his breath, waiting for Derek to say something.

"I'll get your jeep and bring it in the morning." Derek tells him, even though he knows that isn't what Stiles wants to hear. Stiles wants to know why Derek is covered in blood and sporting claw marks on his arm that are slowly healing.

Stiles brings his hand up to the back of his head and feels the spot where his head connected with the pavement. His hands come away faintly red, and he can feel where the blood has begun to dry and crust around the wound. He hears Derek inhale deeply, no doubt smelling the blood on Stiles' fingers.

It is awkward between them, because they both know they're not friends but sort of at the same time. They're there to help one another when they need it and friends by default thanks to Peter. Because, really, it's because of Peter that this entire mess began in the first place. Or maybe it's Stiles' fault, for dragging Scott along through the woods after the other half of Laura Hale's body in the first place. He shakes it away, feeling the rise of panic in his chest again at the thought.

Instead of asking what happened to Derek, Stiles says, "You should probably come in and clean that up." Stiles turns to gaze at the puncture wounds on Derek's arm, lips curling into a grimace at the sight of the ragged edges of the wound. "It looks disgusting." Stiles tells him.

Derek looks down at his arm, saying nothing. He nods. Stiles wonders if he's nodding because he agrees it should be cleaned up or because it's disgusting; maybe both.

They climb out of the car simultaneously and stride toward the house. For the first time Derek uses the front door, because he confirms Stiles' suspicions that his Dad isn't home with a quick sniff and a nod to Stiles. Stiles' throat constricts at the memory of his hallucination, remembering his father shouting at him… telling him everything was his fault… maybe it was his fault his mother was dead… no, it was…

Stiles grips the door frame as his throat closes in on itself. Hot tears swim in his eyes. Stiles' heart speeds up as it becomes harder and harder to breathe. He feels Derek pause beside him, eyes wandering Stiles' face as he places a warm, reassuring hand on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles is surprised when the panic ebbs away. He trains his attention on the warmth of Derek's hand, focusing so hard on that one point that everything else slips away. When the panic is gone and he is Stiles again, he shrugs Derek's hand off roughly – because this is Derek Hale and there is no freaking way he is getting that close to him on the full moon – and trudges through the open door and slips out of his jacket, which has become stained with blood and slick with sweat over the course of the past hour. He misses the look of momentary hurt and anger when he puts his back to Derek and continues toward the stairs.

Derek follows him up the stairs and across the small landing toward the bathroom, where Stiles yanks out towels and thrusts them at Derek before asking awkwardly, "Do you want to shower, or…?" Derek just nods and stands there until Stiles leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

The sound of the shower can be heard across the hall in Stiles room. He doesn't think about how there is a naked werewolf in his house at that moment because then things would become too awkward and Stiles knows he wouldn't be able to look at Derek without freaking out. It's bad enough the Alpha is in his house again to begin with, because they aren't enemies but they're certainly not friends. But now that the thought has crossed Stiles' mind he can't help but think about Derek being in his shower, and he quickly busies himself with opening and closing drawers to distract himself.

Stiles doesn't realize he has started his nightly routine until he is yanking a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms on and collapsing into his desk chair to check his emails. This is what he does on a usual night, and the thought of him doing it now seemed incredulous, because this certainly isn't a usual night.

He closes his laptop and shuffles back to his dresser, bare feet making faint scuffing sounds against the carpeted floor. Stiles pulls out a first aid kit he has stored on the top door, left in plain sight because his Dad never does laundry and wouldn't go rummaging through Stiles' underwear drawer. Stiles sets the large kit on his bed and begins digging through it, pulling out items that would and wouldn't normally be in a first aid kit: bandages, antiseptic, pill painkillers, scissors, and Neosporin. Among the more stranger items within is Mountain Ash – both solid and dust form – wolfsbane bullets and flowers, and even Stiles' Adderall.

Stiles dumps everything onto his desk and lines them up in a long line, just in case. He clenches and unclenches his hands, fighting the urge to pace the length of his room as he waits for Derek to finish in the shower. He remembers just as the shower turns off that he is shirtless, and tugs on a shirt he finds abandoned across the bedpost just as Derek wanders back in, clad in his bloody clothes but looking better overall.

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns back to his dresser, digging through to find something large enough for Derek to wear. He remembers the last time the Alpha was in his room, trying on shirt after shirt. Stiles smiles faintly when he remembers the over-the-shoulder glances Danny kept giving Derek. When he finds something that looks big enough to fit Derek, Stiles throws the shirt and a pair of pyjama pants at Derek and turns his back to give the werewolf his privacy. Stiles listens to the slide of clothes against skin, and when Derek grunts and his bed creaks Stiles turns around and finds Derek is perched at the edge of his bed, looking rather uncomfortable.

"How much has it healed?" Stiles asks, but his voice cracks and the words are garbled. His clears his throat to ask again, but Derek holds out an arm for inspection. Despite the mutual dislike between them, Stiles is worried. He has never seen Derek so quiet – it unnerves him.

The first touch of Stiles' fingers on Derek's arm makes the Alpha jump back. Stiles flinches as well but doesn't let go. Instead he pulls Derek's arm closer to get a better look at the wound. The only light in the room is the moonlight filtering in through the window, sending a beam of silver light cascading diagonally across the room that shines down on Derek's arm. Stiles glances up at Derek before dropping his eyes back down to the wound.

"So are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to sit there and be a pouty sourwolf the rest of the night?" Stiles tries to be sarcastic – tries to put a joking edge to his tone – but it comes off sharp and dark.

Derek growls at him and Stiles lets go of his arm, but it's only because he needs to get the antiseptic and gauze rather than the gravelly half-snarl rumbling in the back of Derek's throat.

Stiles isn't afraid of Derek. There was a point in time several months ago when he was – why wouldn't he be? Derek was a psychotic werewolf he and Scott thought had killed half a dozen people out of cold blood. But now? Stiles just thinks he and Derek misunderstand each other, and no matter how many times Stiles jokes around with Derek and picks fun at him, Stiles genuinely wants to get to know Derek. He wants to understand him, but he isn't sure if the werewolf will let him get close enough.

"Peter is alive."

The words catch Stiles by surprise. He stops mid-step just as the world around him seems to stop in place. It's like the world is frozen in time, and only he and Derek are still going on. Stiles turns on Derek and he knew he would have snarled if he had the ability to. Stiles wants to be a werewolf right then and there just so he could round on Derek and snarl at him with everything he has.

Instead, Stiles turns to Derek and pins him with a fierce glare, but it's nothing compared to the glare Derek is sending him back. "How… we saw him burn!" Stiles exclaims in a disbelieving tone. This was impossible. Surely Derek was pulling his leg, because there was no way Peter was still alive. They all – Stiles, Scott, Derek, the Argents – had watched Peter burn to death. Stiles had watched them bury his body later that night. Peter was nothing more than a burned, rotting pile of bones and disintegrating flesh five feet in the ground.

"It was Lydia. It was like she was in some kind of… trance. I don't know, Stiles." Derek sounds weary.

The shock that surges up within Stiles is so great that he needs to grip the edge of his desk when he turns away from Derek once more to grab the antiseptic. Stiles doesn't want to believe it was Lydia, but it was at her party that the punch was laced with wolfsbane and she was the one who seemed to be losing her sanity ever since Peter bit her on the lacrosse field. Stiles realizes abruptly that it isn't because Lydia is responsible that he is shocked, but because Peter is somehow alive.

He manages to spill the no name antiseptic when he tips it upside down to soak a cotton ball. It dribbles down his fingers and drips down onto his bare feet. Stiles' toes twitch at the icy feeling of the antiseptic.

"So what happened?" Stiles asks as he begins to wipe at the gouge marks on Derek's arm. The werewolf remains still, most likely unbothered by the mild sting. It probably feels like a paper cut compared to the injuries he's had to deal with throughout his life. The wound has stopped bleeding but hasn't completely healed yet. They'll most likely heal in another hour, but Stiles still wants to bandage them up. He wonders why Derek isn't protesting to all of this.

"Lydia left. She was pretty freaked out by everything, and Peter left soon after." Derek nods to the wound on his arm. "That's from Peter. Lydia caught me by blowing wolfsbane dust all over me." Derek grimaces. "And I don't know how I got to the house. She must have dragged me to her car and drove me there." He shrugs again. "She put Peter's hand around my wrist and used mirrors to project moonlight into the room and onto Peter and I. It woke him somehow, and he dug his claws into my arm."

Stiles pauses after that, his hand stilling on Derek's arm as he listens to Derek's tale. "So what happens now?" He asks, a lump catching in his throat. Stiles thinks Derek can hear the catch to his words, but if he does the werewolf doesn't say anything about it. "I mean, are you still Alpha?"

Derek's eyes flash an angry red in response, but the color seeps out and his eyes are back to their usual soft green. Stiles nods his head, relieved. Even though he and Derek don't get along, he would much rather see Derek Alpha than Peter. Peter is the crazy one, and though there are times when Stiles thinks Derek has completely lost his mind, he trusts the younger Hale a lot more than his uncle.

Stiles shuffles across his room to put the antiseptic back on the desk and grabs the bandages. He snatches scissors and medical tape alongside the gauze, and gently sits himself down on the bed beside Derek, putting a good half a foot between them.

Derek looks at Stiles like he's grown two heads and pointedly gives the space between them a cursory stare. Stiles senses the Derek he knows – the hard-headed, stubborn werewolf – coming back, so he grabs Derek's arm roughly and laps it across his lap so he can begin to wrap it in gauze.

The silence between them is so profound that Stiles finds himself searching for something witty to say, but not for the first time that night he comes up empty handed. The panic attack earlier sucked whatever energy he'd had left away. All Stiles wants to do is bundle himself up in blankets and sleep. He is sorely tempted to take some of the sleeping pills he knew were in the medicine cabinet. His father wouldn't miss a couple and Stiles doesn't want to be plagued with the memories of his father shouting at him. He can't face them again for a second time. To think about them is one thing, but in his dreams the memories will play over and over until. He'll be out of control in his dreams, unable to stop the hallucinations from coming to life.

Stiles' fingers still on Derek's arm when he remembers how angry his father had looked. The sharp words replay themselves in Stiles' mind, and each word is like a whip lashing against his emotions. He is too far gone to notice when Derek pulls his arm to his chest and finishes bandaging himself up, but he notices when Derek's hand is on his shoulder again, putting just enough pressure for Stiles to snap out of his reverie.

"I told you what happened to me tonight." Derek says. "So are you going to tell me why I found you in the middle of a panic attack on the side of the road?"

Stiles isn't sure why he tells Derek, but he does. He says it so quickly that the words fly out of his mouth like water off the edge of a waterfall. He recounts the wolfsbane-spiked punch and mentions the hallucinations, but saves telling Derek the most important details until the very end when he says, "And my dad told me it was all my fault and he was screaming and ohmygodDerekit'sallmyfaultshe'sdea-"

Much to Stiles' surprise, Derek doesn't spin out of control when he hears about the wolfsbane. He doesn't ask about Scott and he doesn't even ask if Stiles is okay. Instead, the Alpha shoves the remaining gauze, tape, and scissors to the floor and presses Stiles back against his pillows.

When Derek tugs at the blankets underneath Stiles, he complies and lifts his feet. He blinks at Derek in mild confusion when the werewolf – who smells like Stiles' shampoo and soap and it's too familiar for Stiles' liking – climbs in beside him. Stiles isn't exactly sure what's going on, but he figures Derek needs a place to sleep since Peter is alive again and doesn't say anything. Besides, he can feel the warming presence of Derek on the other side of the bed and Stiles realizes he doesn't mind. It's nice having Derek there for comfort.

Stiles thinks Derek just needs someone tonight too. His packmates are probably wolfing out somewhere in the woods, tearing at each other's throats.

"Thank you." Stiles whispers to Derek's back in the dark. Derek shifts, half-turning toward Stiles. "For tonight. For picking me up and bringing me home." Stiles clarifies.

Derek nods his head once and replies, "Thanks for letting me stay."

For the first time since he's met Derek, Stiles can almost relate to the werewolf. They're both so lost right now – so broken and alone – that they've drifted toward each other automatically, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Maybe now they can even become friends, as unlikely a possibility as that seems.

Stiles is caught by surprise when Derek rolls onto his other side and faces Stiles. His eyes have adjusted to the dark – he can see the outline of Derek, haloed by the moonlight filtering in through his window.

After a long pause, Derek whispers, "It's not your fault, Stiles." And he doesn't delve any deeper than that for Stiles to know what he's talking about.

Tears spring to Stiles' eyes automatically. He doesn't want to think about any of this, but he can't not think about it now that Derek's brought it up. Stiles' screws his eyes shut to stop himself from crying, but just as he does it he remembers Derek is facing him and even if he wasn't would probably know Stiles was about to cry. Stiles hates the idea of crying in front of Derek, but he doesn't know why. Compared to the Alpha, Stiles just feels so… weak. Compared to Scott and the other wolves, Stiles feels like an ant waiting to be squished.

When Peter offered the bite to Stiles, he told him no because he knew it wasn't what he wanted. Looking back on it, Stiles wishes he had said yes. Maybe, just maybe, being a werewolf would stop all of this. Perhaps it would make him emotionally stronger as well as physically, and he could finally become the person he dreams of being.

The lightest of touches brush up and down along his exposed arm, tracing patterns on Stiles' skin and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Stiles shivers at the feeling and opens his eyes – when he does a lone tear trails down his cheek, but the need to cry has disappeared at the feeling of Derek's fingertips on his forearm.

"It's not your fault." Derek repeats, and once again the feeling like he's about to cry rushes back. Before he gets the chance to close his eyes again and drift into his own little world, Derek continues. "I used to blame myself for Laura's death. I woke up every morning and went to bed every night blaming myself. I did that even though I knew it wasn't my fault. I came up with reasons it could be my fault. I told myself I wasn't around to protect her, even though I knew she didn't need protecting. She was a lot stronger than I was, and could have taken on the world."

Stiles realizes Derek's voice is quavering. In the few months he's known Derek, Stiles has never seen the Alpha show weakness. When he was dying from the wolfsbane in his system and told Stiles to cut off his arm, he did it with a fierce steadiness. When he was paralyzed from the neck down thanks to Jackson, he continued to be threatening and snarky toward Stiles.

This time is it Stiles that reaches out and puts a hand on Derek's shoulder. "You know, sourwolf, we're a lot more alike than we both think." Stiles' attempt at humor in that dark moment does exactly as he hopes – Derek's eyes flash red and he growls. His hands shoot out underneath the blankets and shove at Stiles so roughly that he falls out of bed, flailing wildly the entire time like a cartoon character free-falling through the air. Stiles is glad his Dad isn't home, because he lands on the floor noisily and bursts out laughing.

Derek's eyes still glow red when Stiles returns to the bed and slides beneath the covers, but the expression in the wolf's eyes is bewilderment, not annoyance.

Stiles manages to dislodge the persistent, dogging feelings of guilt clogging his insides, even if it's just for a moment. He grins lopsidedly at Derek, giving him a shove of his own. It doesn't quite have the same result as Derek's shove, but Stiles manages to get him to grin, and that's enough for him. "Sourwolf." Stiles mutters again, turning pressing his face into the warmth of his pillow.

He is content to leave things at that and finally drift into the sleep he's been fantasizing about since the panic attack had first jumped him, but there is the feeling of Derek's fingertips brushing the back of his head. Unlike when the wolf ran the tips of his fingers along his arms, the feeling of Derek's fingers on his head stung. Stiles remembered smacking his head off the pavement and groaned.

The hand on his head immediately retreated, taking Stiles' groan as a sign of pain. "Maybe we should take a look at that." Derek says, and again Stiles can detect a hint of worry in the Alpha's voice.

Stiles doesn't roll over. He just laughs. "I'm fine. I just… forgot about it, is all." Everything seems so surreal. It all comes crashing down so quickly that Stiles laughs again. Derek's fingers are brushing against the back of his head this time, moving more insistently now that he knows he isn't hurting Stiles. Stiles just can't believe he's lying in bed with Derek Hale, who is rubbing his head and Stiles is laughing and they are so close Stiles can almost feel the werewolf's breath on the back of his neck.

When Stiles laughs again, Derek removes his hand with a growl and rolls over. Stiles makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and sinks down deeper against his pillow. "G'night, sourwolf." Stiles is tempted to add don't let the bedwolves bite but he decides against it. Derek might actually bite him if he says that, and Stiles isn't sure if he'd actually be against that.

Now that he thinks about it, he's not totally against the idea of becoming a wolf. Maybe Derek's an okay guy – wolf, Alpha, whatever – after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a Teen Wolf fic ever since I started seeing things about the show on Tumblr. I shipped Sterek long before I ever started watching Teen Wolf a couple weeks ago. But I wanted to write something pre-slash, but a lot of the fics I've seen are Stiles pining after Derek or vice versa, and I wanted to see something a bit different. When I imagine pre-slash Sterek, I always see Stiles being hesitant around Derek, not completely trusting him but finding he actually likes Derek in some ways, and thinks they can become friends. Don't get me wrong, I love fics where Stiles is staring at Derek with moon-eyes and finding himself in awkward situations involving him, but I absolutely adore fics where Stiles and Derek are still in the awkward pre-friend stage where things are awkward half the time. This is unbetaed.


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